The Long Way Home (A Preview)
by Pocket-Anon
Summary: When Killian Jones, the infamous Captain Hook, meets a mysterious young woman with no memory of who she is or how she arrived there, he recognizes the chance to claim a monetary reward that will constitute his biggest score yet. But a journey across the world to get her home leads to a series of adventures that reveal that her value lies in far more than gold and jewels.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: I thought I'd let you guys preview a couple of my most popular fics here on FFN! You should know that I will not be posting more than a handful of chapters of this fic here, as I am not willing to violate FFN's guidelines regarding MA-rated work, but if you like it and aren't offended by adult content (which, in this case, includes brief but graphic depictions of violence, peripheral character death, and smut), you can read this fic in it's entirety on AO3 or on my Tumblr._ The Long Way Home _,_ _in total, will be 11 chapters (~70+k) of romance and adventure. I hope you enjoy._

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"Captain! Captain!"

The sound of pounding feet approaching the door to his quarters causes the gentleman in question to lift a heavy, dark eyebrow, even as his gaze remains on the leather-bound inventory log he's hunched over with the ship's quartermaster. The Jolly Roger is preparing to pull into port at Vicarstown, and he always prefers to finalize the list of supplies they need to acquire at a stop prior to docking. It would go better without interruption.

"Captain!"

He gives a long-suffering sigh and drops his head resignedly, his weight pressed forward on his right hand. "Yes, Mr. Smee?" he drones.

Having been waiting for permission to enter, his slightly pudgy first mate flings the door open, the bearded man's features twisted into an anxious grimace. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but a ship's been spotted in port."

He looks up sharply. "Who?"

Smee swallows and licks his lips nervously. "Blackbeard."

A muscle twitches in the Captain's jaw as he considers this information. It's not welcome news, to be sure, but there are worse things. Prominent pirate crews like his and Blackbeard's do not always do well in close quarters, but while their last encounter just under a year ago was tense, no one died. There's no outstanding beef between himself and the other captain (that he's aware of), and frankly, the Jolly sorely needs this stop to resupply and to refill her coffers with the sale of their most recent spoils.

"Do we continue in, Captain?"

The Captain's steely blue return stare is resolute, his expression bordering on a scowl as he straightens. "The Jolly does not turn tail for anyone, Mr. Smee," he snaps. "Particularly not for that lout. But inform the men to remain on guard, and assign extra hands to stay behind on watch. No strangers are to be allowed anywhere near the ship, understood?"

His confidence seems to reassure his first mate, who accepts the orders with a hasty bob of his head. "Yes, Captain."

As Smee pulls the door shut behind him, the Captain turns and retrieves a sharpening steel from the drawer of the small desk in the corner, running it in practiced strokes along the tip of the polished metal hook that sits where his left hand once was. He signals the wiry quartermaster to resume their discussion with a curt nod and hums acknowledgement now and then as the other man talks, even while his thoughts remain elsewhere. A less experienced captain might view the presence of the other ship as an opportunity to poach her best crewmen or plunder her loot, but he knows there's truly little to be gained by starting a feud with a loose cannon like Blackbeard. The more prudent course is to simply remain alert and hope, for once, for an uneventful visit to port.

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Maggie, a plump woman with graying red hair, plasters on a smile as a large group of bawdy customers pours into her tavern – pirates, by the look of them. Her suspicions are confirmed when their leader, a tall man with a curly black mane, matching beard, and a tricorn hat brings up the rear. Maggie winces inwardly at the sight of him. She doesn't turn paying customers away unless they get out of hand, but it's nearly happened with Blackbeard and his crew on more than one occasion. Pirates, on the whole, tend to be an unruly lot, but Blackbeard and the men he generally chooses to sail with are some of the worst of the bunch; it's no feat to think of half a dozen other crews she'd rather have at her tables.

Maggie urgently seeks out her newest serving girl in order to shoot her a look of warning. She took the young blonde in only six weeks ago, and unless the poor thing is even unluckier than they already know her to be, it's doubtful she has any experience dealing with Blackbeard or his crew. Not that the girl would recall such an encounter, having mysteriously appeared in the middle of their little port town with no knowledge of her own name, much less any other details of her life. Dubbed "Swan" by one of the tavern regulars as much for her prickliness when harassed as for her enviable beauty, the girl's entire past is one enormous blank to her, and it's anyone's guess why.

Their eyes meet across the tavern, and Maggie watches Swan survey the new crowd with appropriate apprehension before the girl nods back her understanding. One thing that's been fairly clear from the start is that Swan has good instincts that make her quick to read a situation and adept at dealing with aggressive drunks who want her services to include something other than bringing them food and libations. Maggie prays those instincts serve her well tonight, because between Swan's physical charms and Blackbeard's reputation for causing trouble, things could get ugly very quickly.

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It seems a small miracle when the first hour passes without too much fuss. The pirates arrive famished and sober and more focused on addressing both those maladies than stirring up trouble. Though most of them openly leer and make the usual assortment of lewd comments, no one does more than pat or pinch Swan's ass, offenses that she does her best to ignore.

Nevertheless, the tension grows as the hours creep by. Some of the men depart after eating, no doubt heading for the brothels, but half a dozen remain behind, including their captain, a man with glittering dark eyes whose lingering gaze abrades her skin worse than the rest. Perhaps it's simply the obvious authority he wields over his men, but there's something far more intimidating about him than the others, and she does her best to avoid eye contact and keep out of his reach. Nevertheless, the rum continues to flow, his stare grows increasingly lustful, and by half past ten, she knows by the lascivious curve of his lip and the increasing harshness of his laugh that it's only a matter of time before he does something one of them is going to regret.

The shoe finally drops a short while later. He calls her over and invites her to share a drink with him. She politely demurs, saying that she has other customers to tend to, but he jovially waves off her excuse and rises partway out of his seat, grabbing her skirts as she moves away and yanking her down on to the bench beside him.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you?" he rumbles gruffly, his kohl-lined eyes slightly glassy. "There's only one answer to an invitation from a pirate captain."

Lips in a thin line, Swan fixes him with a scorching glare that causes some of the men behind him to look nervous. To her utter frustration, the Captain himself seems unfazed as he continues to gaze up and down at her assets. "Still pretty sure it's some version of 'no,'" she retorts, springing off the bench. She gasps when his fingers close around her wrist.

For a drunken fool, he still has decent reflexes, and his coarse laugh is menacing as he rises to his feet, staggering only a little, and hauls her over none-to-gently. One beefy hand clamps tightly around her narrow waist, pinning her shoulder to his chest, and he chuckles lecherously as he buries his face in her neck, his acrid breath surrounding her and the sensation of his tongue on her pulse point tempting her to scream. "Come now, girl," he growls in her ear. "Let me show you a good time. Not everyone is lucky enough to have their pleasure with the legendary pirate Blackbeard."

He moves to paw at her breast, and Swan lets out an angry snarl and tries to wrench out of his grasp. Her free hand flails to his chest to push him away and lands on one of a trio of short knives the Captain wears girded to his torso. With a grunt, she yanks it free, flips it to adjust her grip, and whips the blade up against his neck, nostrils flared and chest heaving. "I'll pass," she hisses through her teeth.

It takes Blackbeard's rum-soaked brain a moment to catch up with this turn of events, but he stills and slowly pulls his face back from her golden curls, eyes rolling sideways to lock warily onto the blade pressed firmly to his skin.

"Perhaps you'd best unhand the lady before she gives you a shave, Blackbeard."

They both look up to see an amused-looking man walking toward them. He's rakishly handsome, young and tall with short dark hair, three days of scruff on his chin, and blue eyes. Clad like a man with money, he wears black leather from head to toe, his long, heavy duster swaying gently as he walks, a heavy silver buckle, clasps, rings, and chains glinting in the firelight. He holds his head high, his swagger and the hand poised casually at his belt helping to camouflage the threatening square of his shoulders and the deadly weapons on his person, and Swan realizes with a small start that the curved silver hook he appears to hold in his left hand is actually a replacement for the hand itself. Whoever he is, Blackbeard's men obviously recognize him and do not attempt to get in his way.

The interloper stops a sword's length from them and smirks. "I'd hate to have to circulate the news that your throat was slit by a tavern girl using your own dagger."

"Hook." Blackbeard sneers, though his eyes remains fixed largely on Swan and the blade. He reluctantly releases his grip on her waist, exhaling when she pulls away and the steel leaves his skin. "It's dangerous to stick your nose where it doesn't belong, boy."

Hook gives a dark chuckle. "Yes, you've demonstrated that quite nicely."

With Blackbeard's attention now occupied elsewhere, Swan silently backs up, her heart drumming furiously against her ribs as she keeps the dagger held at the ready and makes a beeline for safety.

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Out of the corner of his eye, Hook watches the barmaid slip away, quick as a shadow, to the far side of the tavern with Blackbeard's weapon still in hand. She finds refuge behind the counter in seconds, and he satisfies himself that she seems unhurt even as Maggie rushes to fuss over her.

"The girl is lovely, but she seems like more trouble than she's worth," he remarks to Blackbeard. "Best let sirens be."

His rival growls, swiping a hand across his neck resentfully and checking his fingers for blood. "I get what I want, Hook."

"If you want a knife in your belly rather than a roll in the sheets, I'd say she's happy to give it to you," he replies cheerfully, allowing himself an admiring glance toward the bar. "But no sense risking your neck for something easily got elsewhere." He steps closer, arching an appraising eyebrow. "Unless," he drawls with a wicked grin, "you can't afford more willing company?"

"Watch your tongue or lose it." Blackbeard grunts testily and knocks back one last shot of rum before pointedly tossing a small bag of coins on the table. "There's never a day my coffers don't put yours to shame." He barks at his remaining crewmen that the brothels await them and stomps toward the door and out into the night without so much as a look back, his men trailing in his stormy shadow.

Thankfully, the girl is nowhere to be seen as they make their exit. The palpable tension in the tavern eases and the din swells back to normal levels when the heavy oak door shuts behind the last of them. Hook inhales deeply, chin tipped slightly upward, and snags Blackbeard's money before going to the bar to pay his greetings to the tavern-keep.

She meets him with grateful eyes and pushes a full bottle of rum in his direction. "On the house, Captain."

He favors her with a wide grin and tosses her the little satchel. "Think nothing of it, love. My evening will be much better without having to share space with that bloody fool."

Maggie chuckles and goes back to draining a cask of ale into tankards. She cocks her head sideways at him. "You must be in a generous mood tonight to bother talking him into leaving. I hear the two of you never hesitate to cross swords."

He harrumphs. "The bastard's no challenge when he's drunk. Plus I'd hate for you to have to wash blood from your walls when time's better spent making food and ale." He pops the cork on the rum with his thumb and takes a healthy swig, humming appreciatively at the sear of quality liquor down his throat. "With a little luck he'll leave your new girl alone now," he mutters.

Maggie arches an eyebrow, a discerning glint in her eye. "I'm sure Swan'll be glad of it," she replies coyly.

The corner of his mouth quirks upward at the odd moniker. "Swan?"

"That's what we call her. Poor dear appeared in Vicarstown over a month ago without any memories; just woke up in an alley with no idea how she got there. Doesn't even know her own name."

He leans forward, frowning. "Really. Injured?"

"Or cursed." Maggie shakes her red curls with a shrug. "Nary a trace of what did this to her, but she's good help, smart as a whip, and easy on the eyes, as I'm sure you've noticed, so I took her in." She sets another brimming tankard on a tray with five others and wipes her hands on her apron. "Have a seat, Captain. I'll send her along with these presently, and we'll see if she'll indulge your curiosity." She winks.

Hook gives a courtly bow as he backs away with rum in hand. "I do so enjoy your hospitality, Maggie."

True to the older woman's word, several minutes after sitting down with his men at the corner table he favors, Hook spies the girl's golden head coming toward them. To her credit, she no longer looks shaken by earlier events, managing a pleasant, professional smile. It's no mystery why Blackbeard wanted her; she's easily the most enchanting creature he's seen in months, if not years. Lustrous blonde hair spills in loose, thick waves around her shoulders, firelight dances across graceful high cheekbones and a perfect nose, and long, dark lashes frame her big, mossy-green eyes. She's slender with curves in all the right places, and though not dressed as provocatively as many barmaids he's met, she cuts quite the figure in her tight-laced russet bodice and dark blue petticoat, with more than one man at his table regarding her (and the swell of her breasts) with interest.

She navigates her way toward them bearing her tray of drinks and sets it down on the table with a murmured greeting. "Hello. Here you are. Now, would you all like food, more drink, or both?" She listens intently as the men begin ordering, intelligence obvious in those lovely eyes. Then she turns her gaze fully upon him, her expression going solemn. "I should thank you for earlier, Captain."

Something about her sincerity causes him to feel almost shy, but he acknowledges her thanks with a tip of his head. "Yes, well, I'll have you know your quick thinking deprived me of a dashing rescue."

His words cause her to smile – this time a real, gorgeous, self-satisfied smile that reaches her eyes and causes his throat to tighten. She shrugs, lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks. "Sorry. The only one who saves me is me, I guess," she says with a slight blush.

He chuckles. "Tough lass." He holds out his hand. "Captain Killian Jones. They call me Hook."

"They call me Swan," she returns. Her palm is soft as it slides into his rough one, but the handshake she gives him is confident and solid.

He turns her hand over and presses a gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles before letting go, enjoying the way the color in her face deepens. "So I hear."

The next few hours are something of a blur to him as he spends it eating and drinking and playing dice, all the while trying his best to keep from openly staring at the Swan girl as she goes about her work. She's a delight to watch – graceful, observant, efficient, and savvy when it comes to handling the rougher clientele. Her fierceness doesn't end with her encounter with Blackbeard – a grin tugs at his lips each time she uses a baleful stare or a sharp quip to put a presumptuous man back in his place. She's fascinating, this woman – a bright jewel in a dingy setting – and so he passes the evening stealing glances and keeping one ear open for the sound of her voice.

It's just after midnight when the tavern quiets, most of his men having gone off to the brothels or back to the Jolly to sleep off their well-fed, drunken stupor. Even Maggie has retired upstairs to her apartments, leaving Swan behind to see to the stragglers, most of whom are dozing at the tables.

"Are you not joining your men, Captain?" she asks while gathering dirty dishes from a nearby table.

Hook looks up at her from the supply purchase list he's reviewing and smiles. "Why would I do that when the company here is so much more interesting?"

She rolls her eyes, but even in the firelight he can discern another subtle flush in her cheeks. "'Interesting' is hardly the right word. I don't have any stories to tell."

He hums noncomittally, seeing her modest comment for what it really is. "Maggie mentioned that. You've no memories at all?"

Swan appears only half-surprised that he's been told of her situation. There's a split-second before she folds her lips ruefully and shakes her head. "None." With an apologetic smile, she carries the plates back to the kitchen.

Hook stares into the fire crackling in the hearth, all of the nightmarish memories that occasionally still haunt his sleep – memories he's spent decades trying to drown in cheap drink and loose women – coming to mind. "What is that like?" he asks quietly when she returns, running a finger around the lip of his rum bottle absently. "To not have any memories?"

She pauses and turns to survey him, and he gets the sensation that she sees deeper into him than he wants to let her. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked. It feels as though he's just showed his hand. But his unease is replaced with elation when she sighs and sits down at his table.

"It's very strange," she answers, her face honest. "Empty. I don't know who I am or where I come from or how I got here, whether I have a family, what my life was like…" She gives a sardonic laugh. "It's unnerving."

Her sad eyes make his heart twinge, and he studies her thoughtfully. "Well that's not true; we know _some_ things about you, Swan."

"Oh, so you're a pirate _and_ a fortune-teller?" She tosses him a dry look, a delicate eyebrow raised.

Hook grins at her sarcasm and shakes his head. "Just experienced. I've traveled the realms for a long time." He reaches across the table and gestures at one of her hands. "May I?"

She blinks, surprise giving way to dubiousness, and considers him for a long moment before finally acquiescing and gingerly setting one of her hands in his. He tries to ignore the tingle that shimmers down his spine and the uptick in his heart rate that comes from her touch, pointing at her upturned palm with the tip of his hook. "Look. You have a few calluses, but not enough to suggest a life of hard labor. The color of your lovely skin in the heart of this summer suggests that either you came from a northern country or you spent most of your time out of the sun," he continues, thinking aloud. "The way you speak also rules out half a dozen lands I can think of." He smiles back up at her. "See how this works?"

She's leaning forward now, the skepticism in her eyes fading as she swallows and nods. She glances at her hand in his and pulls away, clearing her throat and rubbing her palms together self-consciously with pink in her cheeks. "That's, uh, that's actually pretty clever."

Hook curls his empty fingers. "Well, I didn't get to be a pirate captain on my good looks alone, you know," he quips, flashing a rapscallion's grin for effect.

She laughs and chews on her lip in a way he finds endearing. "Anything else?"

He shrugs. "Well, I think it's obvious that you're not from anywhere near here, or someone would have recognized you by now. No one could forget a face like yours, I assure you." He winks, savoring her recurrent blush, and his finger taps the table as he continues to muse. "Have you tried looking at maps? Perhaps something might look familiar."

Her eyes light at the suggestion. "I hadn't thought of that, but there are maps over at the bookshop. I can make a trip there tomorrow afternoon."

He scratches behind his ear. "You know, I also have a very large assortment of maps on my ship which will cover many more lands than what you'll find at that shop," he volunteers. "Perhaps you'd like to come aboard?" He lifts his eyebrows hopefully.

This earns him an incredulous sideways glance.

"For the maps, Swan," he says, feigning innocence with a boyish grin.

"I'm sure."

His heart falls when she gets to her feet, but his disappointment is tempered by the way her eyes dance.

"I'll try the shop first, thanks. I think there's one thing I _can_ tell you about myself, Captain."

He arcs an eyebrow. "Oh?"

She hums knowingly. "I don't think I'm the kind of girl you're hoping I am."

He chuckles, letting her words sit between them for a moment before rising and pressing a handful of coins into her palm to cover his bill, marveling again at the softness of her skin. "Perhaps," he says softly, dipping his nose so it's inches from hers, "you don't know what kind of girl I'm hoping you are." He savors the nervous flutter of her long lashes and her failure to pull away this time, and he grins, stepping back and giving her a military-style bow. "The Jolly Roger will be in port at least until Friday. I hope to see you again soon, milady."

Swan watches him retreat with wide eyes. She licks her lips and swallows. "Goodnight, Captain."

"Goodnight, Swan."


	2. Chapter 2

Hook spends the following morning haggling over the sale of the Jolly Roger's loot – barrels of tea leaves, casks of fine spices, bottles of expensive perfumes, bolts of cloth, and loose gems they've taken off a handful of merchants over the last few weeks. It's their usual routine in port to sell the spoils first to refill the coffers and empty the hold and then to resupply shortly before departing. Much to his relief, Blackbeard's ship, the Queen Anne's Revenge, is doing the latter, and rumor is she's heading back out to sea today. Hook watches her through his spyglass from across the wharf, her decks a bustle of activity as packs of salted meat, crates of dried fruits and vegetables, boxes of hardtack, and casks of fresh water are loaded aboard. _With any luck, they'll be gone by sundown_ , he thinks grimly, _and everyone will be able to breathe a bit easier_.

He stows his glass and turns his attention toward the town, fingering the full purse on his belt and enjoying the jangle of the coins therein. Their earnings from this morning have already been distributed to the crew and the remainder secured aboard the ship, and, with the exception of the men standing the current watch, the rest of his crew have already gone ashore to indulge in what pleasures of port their money can buy. He, too, plans to enjoy a bit of leisure time this afternoon, and he contemplates where to go first. It's little surprise when his mind turns to a certain bookshop and the intriguing girl he might find there, and before he knows it, he's headed down the gangplank, his feet light as they carry him into town.

Swan and her mysterious past constitute the most interesting diversion he's had for a long time, and he turns the puzzle over and over in his mind while he wanders the humble dirt streets. He's known men to lose their memories and even their faculties after head injuries, but the girl obviously has her wits about her (indeed, to a captivating degree) and there were no signs of physical injury on her arrival, to hear Maggie tell of it. Maggie had suggested a curse, which seems more likely in his mind. Swan is special, as anyone can see, and it's long been his experience that special people have a tendency to find glory or trouble, if not both.

He hasn't shared this particular insight with her, but he suspects that she might be noble. Despite her skill in handling rowdy tavern patrons and lusty pirates, her manners and the way she carries herself suggest good breeding. He's already pointed out that she bears no signs of a life of manual labor, and that suggests some amount of money. The way she'd handled Blackbeard's knife is also interesting. She'd wielded it properly, flipping it about in her hand and holding it at the ready like a woman trained to handle a blade. _Who taught her? Her father, perhaps? A brother? A husband?_ he wonders with a frown. _And are these people looking for her?_ Surely she's being missed by someone, unless some horrible fate has also befallen her family.

To his disappointment, he doesn't see her when he locates the little town's bookshop and peeks in the window, but across the way lies a swordsmith, and he decides that perusing their weapons is as good a way as any to pass his time. He waves off help from the swordsmith's young apprentice and contents himself to browse the racks of weapons on display, picking them up, testing their weight, eyeing the curves of their blades, and putting them back, always with one eye on the street. The selection and quality here is good, and he makes a mental note to return and find a few new swords for the Jolly's armory.

It's nearly two o'clock when at last he spots a slender figure in a dark blue cloak who looks as though she's trying not to draw attention as she steals down the street with a large covered basket draped over one feminine arm. The hood obscures her face from this angle, but a stray blond wisp betrays her, and he recognizes Swan immediately. He hastily replaces the saber he's examining and steps outside. "'Afternoon, milady!"

She halts and turns her head, looking a little shy even as she offers him a smile that makes his heart leap. Swan smoothes back the errant lock of hair and glances up and down the street for onlookers before she makes her way over to him. "Captain."

"Fancy meeting you here," he says blithely. "What are you about today?" He gestures toward her basket.

One eye narrowed as though she sees right through him, she grins nonetheless and allows him a peek inside at a collection of carrots, onions, and heads of cabbage. "For dinner tonight at the tavern," she explains. "I was going to stop by the bookshop to see those maps on the way back. You?"

Hook tips his head toward to the swordsmith's shop behind him. "Looking to restock the ship's armory," he answers. An idea occurs. "Care to look around with me? You seem to know your way around a blade."

She snorts. "Yes, I know which is the pointy end," she chuckles wryly.

Hook laughs. "You may know more than that. Let's find out." He motions for her to follow him inside and flashes his most winning smile. When she opens her mouth in protest, he lifts his brows beguilingly. "Humor me, darling?"

Swan rolls her eyes and sighs, allowing him to shuttle her through the door of the smithy. Once inside, she sets her basket down, pulling back the hood of her cloak and surveying the large space curiously, her head craning to look upon the racks of shining weapons that line the walls.

He steps away to pick out a few different swords, the metal clanking as he threads the hilts over his upturned hook. "Here we are, love." He returns and holds one up for her to inspect. "Do you know what this type of blade is called?"

"It's a cutlass," she answers with a shrug. "Most sailors carry them."

"Very good." He favors her with an encouraging grin and hands the cutlass off to the apprentice before sliding the next sword off his hook. "And this?" He watches with satisfaction as she takes in the weapon's features and her face brightens.

"I think it's called a backsword."

"Excellent," he crows, his smile growing wider. "And this?" He holds up a third.

"That's a smallsword."

He swings the smallsword in the direction of a much larger blade displayed on the wall. "And that?"

"A longsword." Her delicate features form an expression of awe and excitement as she realizes what she knows.

"And if you needed to defend yourself, which would you reach for first?"

She smirks. "The closest one."

 _Gods, she's bloody brilliant._ Hook laughs, shaking his head. "You know what I mean, love. Which would you be most comfortable wielding?"

Swan purses her lips in thought, and her lashes flutter closed as she tries to envision her weapon of choice. Head still bowed, she lifts a finger toward the sword on the wall. "That one."

The certainty in her voice causes him to raise an eyebrow. "Really? Alright." He returns the smallsword and bids the smith's apprentice to bring him a couple of long wooden practice blades from a bin in the corner. The teenage boy eagerly complies, running the polished rods over and then scrambling to take up a seat in the corner in order to watch. Hook throws the lad a wink as he passes one practice sword to Swan and then brandishes the other.

"Uh, what are we doing?"

"Something most people try to avoid," he replies matter-of-factly, rotating his wrist with practiced ease to get a feel for the balance of his weapon. A playful grin curves his mouth. "You're about to cross blades with a pirate." He holds up his hook to stifle her objection. "Look, Swan, clearly you've had some weapons education; you even have a clear preference in swords. Someone somewhere has taught you something. Let's just see how much you know, yeah?"

Her forehead wrinkles, and she blinks at him helplessly. "You know this is crazy, right?"

Hook shrugs. "On the contrary, love, if it helps get your memories back, it strikes me as quite rational."

"Okay, but why?" Swan plants her free hand on her hip and angles her head. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because this is the most interesting thing I've found to do in a long time," he admits with exasperation, motioning for her to raise her weapon. "Now come on."

She looks down at her practice sword and back to his expectant expression. At last, she throws caution to the wind with a huff. "Ugh. Fine." Undoing the clasp of her cloak, she pulls it off and deposits it atop her basket, revealing a pretty white blouse with short puffed sleeves and a dark green petticoat beneath a brown leather underbust corset that flatters her body in such ways as to make his mouth run dry. Swan tests the weight of the practice blade and gives it a few swings with a thoughtful hum. Then, meeting his eyes, she executes a two-handed sideways slash at his head.

Though he's momentarily distracted by her appearance, sharp reflexes and years of experience allow him to instantly deflect her attack, the loud clack of wood on wood echoing through the shop. They circle around one another as she attempts several more strikes, each of which he smoothly parries, but he roars encouragement to her as she goes, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm. "Good! Nicely done. Again!"

After several minutes, he begins to introduce some basic attacks of his own, determined not to harm her but interested to know whether she's been taught defense. As usual, Swan does not disappoint. Her skills are not overly polished, but they're far from rudimentary. Sweat beads on her forehead, and though she just barely manages to block a few of his jabs, she guards herself well and doesn't give up too much ground as he tries to advance, meeting him strike for strike with determined grunts and a stubborn bent to her brow. He notes that she switches between a one-handed and two-handed grip frequently. Even more interesting however, is that she appears to be enjoying herself as her confidence grows, her face a mixture of focus and exhilaration. After five minutes, however, she begins to visibly tire, and he reluctantly decides to end their match. With a wide rotation of his sword and a flick of his wrist, her blade drops to the floor.

He answers her pout with a consoling smile. "That was excellent, Swan. You've been taught well." He tries not to stare at the way her chest heaves or the way a thin sheen of sweat makes her creamy skin glow in the afternoon light.

She dabs her forehead with the back of her wrist. "Is that all that tells you?" she asks breathlessly.

"Uh…" Hook tears his eyes off her with some effort and coughs weakly. "No." He collects the practice blades and returns them to the apprentice, flicking the boy a copper for his trouble. "By your choice of the longsword and the way you handle it, I suspect you were trained by a soldier or a warrior in one of the northern lands. Your skill suggests that either you're a quick study or that whoever trained you devoted a fair amount of time to it and was probably an excellent swordsman." He allows her to contemplate this while he scoops up her cloak and basket, arranging them over his hook arm before herding her toward the door with his hand on the small of her back. "Come. If you're not too tired, you can show me to this bookshop, and we'll see what else we can discover about you."

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

Swan wears a private smile as she watches Hook confer with the proprietor of the bookshop from her seat in the corner. She bites back a giggle at the sight of the fearsome captain being surprisingly patient with the intimidated shopkeeper, a mouse of a man who is clearly unaccustomed to having pirates in his store. His wizened little hands tremble as he leafs through his parchments and atlases, and his bespectacled eyes keep darting nervously to the Captain's hook hand. Hook shoulders the man's fear of him with ease, clearly accustomed to being viewed as a threat.

She chews her lip as she considers Killian Jones. She's heard of Captain Hook a number of times since her arrival in port. From what she's gathered, he has a reputation for being ruthless, devious, and cunning, and a position on his crew is highly coveted by sailors looking to work for a man who is demanding but wildly successful. The women adore him, and it's not hard to see why. He's intelligent and suave and unfairly handsome, with blue eyes as mercurial as the ocean and a smile that draws her in and begs for her affection. Swan can't deny the sparks that seem to dance across her skin each time he finds an excuse to touch her or the low flutter in her stomach whenever she catches him watching her with poorly-disguised want. But the thing that intrigues her most about the man is his obvious interest in discovering who she is, rather than simply seducing her. He'd implied some degree of boredom, though what could be boring about a life filled with swashbuckling adventures is beyond her. Swan takes a deep breath. Well, whatever his motive, he's helped her figure out more about herself in the last 24 hours than anyone else has been able to deduce in six weeks, and for that she supposes she owes him a debt of thanks. A shiver runs between her shoulder blades at the thought of how he might elect to receive such gratitude, and she blinks rapidly and looks away, attempting to redirect her mind toward something – anything – else.

To her great relief, the Captain himself provides a distraction when he returns bearing an enormous atlas. "Here we are, Swan. Hopefully this will do."

"Oh?" she asks, looking back up hastily. She feigns a smirk while praying her cheeks are not as red as they feel. "Are you saying I might not have to visit your ship after all?"

"Well, let's not be hasty." He flashes a wicked sideways grin and thumps the book down on the table in front of her, opening it to a particular page with a creak of the spine and rotating it her direction. "Here's a map of the lands to the north. Given your skill with the longsword, I think it best to start here." Inspiration seems to strike him, and he pulls out a black scarf and drapes it over the page.

"What are you doing?"

"Just trust me." He responds to her arched eyebrow with a sly wink and pulls part of the scarf back to reveal the far upper left corner of the map. "There's Arendelle. What lies to the east?"

For twenty minutes they work their way across the map, heads bowed together, Hook gradually pulling back the scarf to reveal more and more of the northland as he quizzes her about what lies just beyond the visible parchment. It becomes evident to them both that she has in fact been taught more than a little about the geography of the world, but as they move a little farther down the giant page, her knowledge of the terrain becomes more and more detailed.

Hook points to a large river that disappears beneath the scarf's edge. "Do you know what becomes of this?"

Swan sighs, the whispers of impatience beginning to take hold, but he eggs her on with an irresistible smile and a little nod, and she lets her eyes fall shut and dutifully struggles to remember. "It… winds through a mountain pass," she says haltingly. "There are a lot of twists and turns. Then it turns hard to the east and becomes the northern border of Misthaven. Eventually it runs all the way to the White Sea."

There's a prolonged silence, and she opens her eyes to find him staring at her, his face inexplicably dumbstruck. She frowns. "Captain?"

He licks his lips, blue eyes shining, a small awed smile blooming on his face. "Bloody hell, Swan," he breathes. "I think I know who you are."

Her mouth falls open. "What? Who? How?"

He whisks the scarf away and stares at the now-revealed map of Misthaven, a medium-sized kingdom that lies along the eastern border of the large central continent. His finger absently traces the river that runs exactly the course she predicted. "It makes sense," he mutters.

"What does?" She grabs his forearm to draw his attention back to her. "What makes sense?"

Hook glances down at her hand almost curiously, and Swan pulls her fingers away, willing her face not to warm. He grins softly. "I haven't been in that part of the world for a while," he begins, "but we came across a long-distance merchant ship from Glowerhaven about a month ago. There was a royal communiqué among the captain's papers addressed to all of that kingdom's ships – an alert about a missing person." He leans back in his chair and gestures to her. "Princess Emma of Misthaven." He chuffs. "Apologies, love, I should have thought of it sooner."

Swan squints, trying to process his words in a way that doesn't make them seem preposterous. "Wait, what? You think I'm _royal_?" She crosses her arms with a disbelieving laugh. "That's insane."

"Is it?" he presses, arching an eyebrow. "You carry yourself like nobility, Swan, you have the manners and education of someone high-born, and you've been trained to fight by a great swordsman, like a knight or a _king_."

"What do you mean I…" The indignant question fades from her lips, and Swan is suddenly so overwhelmed with nervous energy she leaps to her feet and begins to pace restlessly. Noble? Royal? Her? That's absurd.

 _Isn't it?_

Hook's piercing gaze continues to follow her, his expression maddeningly sensible. "They say the Princess is beautiful and clever, if a bit unconventional. I daresay it's an apt description." His eyes glint with amusement. "There's also your talent for rebuffing men to take into account."

She pauses, shooting him an irritated look. "What does that have to do with anything?"

He chuckles, brushing the side of his curled index finger with his thumb. "As I recall, there was a bloody pilgrimage of suitors to Misthaven last summer. Went home empty-handed, the lot of them. Forgive me, love, but I have no trouble believing that was your doing."

Swan snorts, but the shadow of a smile flits across her face. She wanders back to her chair, thoughts still reeling. "I had no idea you had a taste for royal gossip," she manages.

"Yes, well, word travels fast in my circles when the waterways are filled with wealthy noblemen." His smirk fades at the unamused tilt of her head, and he sighs. "Look, I know this seems crazy," he says soberly, "but you have to listen to me. Deep down, you know I'm right."

"How could it be true?" she demands, lines creasing her forehead in rows. "How could I forget everything and end up on the other side of the world? It's impossible."

Hook smiles patiently. "Love, I've traveled this realm and a few others for over 170 years." He responds to her shocked blink with a dismissive wave. "Long story. But suffice it to say there's very little that's impossible. I promise you there's an explanation." He nudges the book closer to her with his fingertips. "You have good instincts. Trust your gut, Swan. It will tell you what to do."

She's silent for a long while, reaching to gingerly trace her fingers over Misthaven's winding borders. His reasoning is sound – she doesn't question that – but it's all so much. _Too_ much. What if he's wrong? He _has_ to be wrong. She doesn't feel like a princess (whatever that feels like). She's just an ordinary person, a little lost girl taken in by a tavern-keep, a girl who sweeps floors and takes orders and serves ale and dodges handsy drunkards. And suddenly she finds herself keeping company with an infamous (infamous, devastatingly handsome, and apparently _ancient_ ) pirate captain who's convinced she's heir to a kingdom half a world away, and it's _too much_.

She looks up and searches his face. His eyes are uncharacteristically honest and imploring, and she finds she cannot resist their silent plea. At last she exhales with a shudder. "If," she says slowly, " _If_ you're right… then what do I do? Who could have done this?"

Hook shakes his head. "I don't know. Perhaps an enemy of your parents? Alas, I'm not an expert on royal politics, though I know something about having magical enemies." He pointedly holds his hook aloft.

Her eyebrows tick upward, but she decides not to pursue that tale for now. "So what do I do?" she asks again, tucking another stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Well, that seems rather obvious. You go home."

She eyes the map again, following the path of Misthaven's coastline and letting her thumb drift over the tiny drawing of a castle a little ways inland. _The royal seat._ "Home?" she repeats softly.

He nods. "Even if we're wrong, Swan, it's clear you won't find any more answers around here. I think travel to the northern lands is your best bet."

"With little money and no resources?" She utters a strained laugh. "How would I even get there?"

The knowing smile that curls at his mouth illuminates Hook's face like the sun. "Why, on the Jolly Roger, of course."

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

 _Bloody hell._ She's the Crown Princess of Misthaven. The bloody _Princess_. Hook escorts Swan back to the tavern, sneaking sideways glances at her perfect face, and the more he considers the idea, the surer he is of it. The problem now lies in convincing her. She seems to be considering his proposal to travel north, but _belief_ , aye, belief is another thing all together. He can't say he blames her – it seems quite the fantastical story. But then, he's lived enough fantastical stories to know that the truth is capable of being more bizarre than the tallest tale.

His plan to take her back to Misthaven on the Jolly is perfect, though – she'll get her best chance to find out who she is, and he'll get to enjoy her delightful company for well over a month. And if the communiqué he found was correct and the King and Queen are willing to reward him handsomely for the safe return of their beloved daughter, well, he wouldn't be a pirate if he turned down a profitable endeavor, would he?

He leaves Swan at the tavern to help Maggie prepare for the evening crowd, giving her arm a gentle squeeze and gently tipping her chin up with the curve of his hook so he can meet her conflicted eyes. "I know it's a lot to think about, love," he says, "but try. I can help you find what you're looking for."

She smiles weakly and offers a timid nod. "I'm sure I'll see you soon, Captain."

Hook gives his most reassuring grin and a bow.

As soon as she disappears around the doorway, he makes haste back to the docks. A passenger on the Jolly means another mouth to feed and more supplies to buy for the journey, a matter to discuss with the quartermaster. And a _female_ passenger means adjusting the crew's sleeping arrangements. Smee will have to give up the first mate's berth, the only private sleeping quarters on the ship other than his own – unless, of course, the Princess wants to join him in the captain's quarters.

Hook bites his lip and shakes his head. The idea is a wonderfully salacious distraction, but Swan isn't a common whore with whom he can just have some fun and part ways. There was a time, back when he was more promiscuous, when he wouldn't have hesitated to try to bed a woman as beautiful as her, regardless of the circumstances. But he's mellowed a little over the decades, and while her royal title doesn't automatically inspire much respect from him, Swan herself certainly does. The Princess, even unmarried, has no business consorting with a pirate except in his wildest fantasies – she's too pure, too special to be sullied by a man like him. She may not remember turning down every eligible nobleman who's sought to win her, but she has. Fate, it seems, has an even worthier hero in store for her. He grits his teeth and glances down at the heavy rings he wears, trophies from men who once crossed him and met their ends. For the first time in over 100 years, the sight of them brings a pang of regret, rather than reassurance. A hero he most certainly is not. There was a time, long ago, when he and his brother dreamt of becoming heroes, but it's no more than a distant memory now, a pleasant dream completely obscured by Liam's death and the hard lesson it taught him about the steep price of maintaining gallant ideals in a cruel world.

Transporting the Princess back to Misthaven should be an interesting adventure and certainly a lucrative one – that's all that matters, isn't it? There's no room in his heart for love anymore anyway, he reminds himself bitterly; he's destined to mourn his first love, his Milah, forever. That's his sad fate and a fitting punishment for the villain he's become.

When he arrives at the Jolly, he summons the quartermaster and Smee to his cabin and orders them to close the door.

The quartermaster, Roberts, shares a questioning look with Smee and complies. "Captain?"

Hook throws both men a look of forewarning. "This is for your ears only, understand?" His tone brokers no room for argument.

The men glance at one another again and nod. "Yessir," they answer in unison.

He wanders over to a cabinet filled with rolled maps and star charts and begins sorting through them. "I've come across a rather extraordinary opportunity for us, but it will require some modification of our previous plans and an unusual situation on board for the next two months." He locates his comprehensive map of the White Sea. "We'll be taking a female passenger to Misthaven."

Smee balks. "A woman? Who?"

Hook chooses his words carefully. "It has yet to be confirmed, but I think she's their missing princess." He ignores his crewmen's startled expressions as he rolls the map out over his table and secures it with paperweights. "She's lost her memories somehow, but I've spent enough time with her to be convinced of her identity. Word is that the King and Queen are offering quite the sum for her safe return." He glances up at them meaningfully and grins. "Enough to set us up for a long time."

"So we're kidnappin' 'er then?" Roberts asks, raising an eyebrow, no judgment on his weather-worn face. It would hardly be the first time a pirate had taken a royal for ransom.

Hook smiles wider and waves a finger. "That's the beauty of it. I don't think there will be a need. I think the lass is going to come with us willingly. She may not be sure of who she is, but she knows traveling north with us is her best chance to find some answers."

"Well, that will certainly make it easier," Smee agrees, brightening.

"I'm glad you agree, Mr. Smee," Hook replies amiably, "because she is likely going to need your berth for the journey while you bunk with the rest of the men."

Smee's face falls immediately.

"It also means," Hook continues, turning to Roberts, "that we've another mouth to feed. You and I are going to revise the purchase list. I want us resupplied and back out to sea in no more than two days."

"Yes, Captain."

"Not a word of this to anyone, anywhere," he emphasizes, giving them each a hard look. "That includes the rest of the crew until she's aboard and we're underway. If word gets out that the Princess is in port, the excitement could spook her, or someone else may try to steal her away for themselves. She is highly precious cargo, and this will require discretion. We will not collect our reward unless we deliver her to her kingdom safely."

After dismissing Smee and modifying the purchase list with Roberts, Hook leans over the map on his table with a distant stare. With any luck, they'll be back out to sea in a day or two with the Princess on board. A small smile pulls at his mouth as his mind begins to wander. He envisions them sharing the occasional meal at this table and wiling the evenings away in pleasant discussion. He can regale her with stories of his adventures and enjoy the way her gorgeous face lights up when she laughs that warm, infectious laugh of hers. Perhaps he'll resume her weapons training – give her a few lessons on deck and teach her to use a cutlass or a nimble smallsword in addition to that less wieldy longsword she currently favors. Perhaps he'll point out the constellations to her as they sail on moonlit waters; even with her royal education, he doubts she can read the night sky better than he. He imagines her standing on the deck with a hand at the rail, the wind tugging at her silken hair and the hem of her skirt while her shining eyes gaze out over the dark waves toward the horizon.

Hook catches himself in his reverie and freezes, his fingers tightening into a fist. He has to stop. As bloody amazing as the Princess is, he cannot afford to develop any real feelings for her; it'll only lead to heartache when they return her to her kingdom and bid her farewell, and he's had enough of that for several lifetimes, he thinks, glowering at his right forearm where Milah's name lies inscribed in ink beneath his sleeve. Hook sets his jaw in silent rebuke. He's been in this business long enough to know that sentimentality only leads to regrets or empty pockets, and frankly, he can afford neither.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

"Are you alright, Swan?" Maggie bangs her ladle against the inside of the stew pot with a few loud clangs and sets it aside. "You've hardly said two words all afternoon."

Swan glances up from the potato she's peeling, forcing a smile that does not reach her eyes. "I'm fine," she reassures the older woman, "Just… thinking."

Maggie snorts, placing a lid over the pot and adding another small log to the wood-burning stove. "Oh, _thinking_ ," she repeats good-naturedly. "What's turned your head?" She crooks an eyebrow. "It wouldn't be a certain handsome pirate captain, would it?" Swan gives a start, and the tavern keeper nods sympathetically. "He's a charming bastard, isn't he? You certainly aren't the first to pine after him."

"Ugh, I'm not _pining_ ," Swan retorts, wrinkling her nose. "I mean, he's not what I expected, and he _is_ charming, but it's not that."

"Of course." Maggie smiles indulgently and hauls out her cutting board. "Well, what then?"

Swan tosses the potato in a bowl and reaches for another. "He…" She pauses, brow creased. "He thinks he's figured out who I am. Who I _really_ am," she clarifies.

The other woman gasps and spins, agog. "You're serious?" When Swan nods, she muffles her happy cry with both hands. "Well, tell me, girl!"

Swan smiles weakly. "He thinks I'm from Misthaven." She doesn't want to share the fact that Hook believes her to be a member of the royal family; even if she were convinced of it herself, labeling herself as a princess seems a good way to invite trouble. "He's… heard of a woman who's been missing, and he thinks I fit her description. He wants to take me there to see if we can find some answers."

"Heavens." Maggie aims a puzzled look at the ceiling as she tries to remember. "I think I've heard of Misthaven. Where is it?"

Swan bites her lip. "Practically on the other side of the world."

"Well, what would you be doing here then?"

"I don't know!" Swan tosses another potato into the bowl with more force than necessary and hunches forward on her little stool, her eyes dropping to her hands as she anxiously rolls the paring knife between her palms. "It's crazy, right?"

Maggie considers her for a moment before humming and gently collecting the knife and the bowl of peeled potatoes from her. "It'd certainly be a strange thing," she agrees. She sets to dicing vegetables, and for a few long minutes, the only sound between them is the crackle of the fire in the stove and the repetitive thunk of her knife on the wooden cutting board. "But then," she offers at last, "if anyone would know about strange things, it's the Captain."

Swan looks up at her warily and scoffs. "Are you saying you think he's right? That I should just go off on some caper? With a _pirate_?"

"I hardly know, my dear," Maggie concedes serenely, her eyes on her work. "But while Killian Jones is indeed one of the most feared pirates in these parts, he also strikes me as a very smart man. What he says could be worth considering, so long as you don't think he's trying to deceive you." She wipes down the cutting board with a rag and throws Swan a glance over her shoulder. "Do you think he's lying?"

"No." Her reply is immediate, and Swan gives a frustrated huff. She doesn't know how, but she's _sure_ that he isn't lying. The fact is that she's discovered an unnatural propensity for knowing when people are lying in general – that strange way her skin crawls when husbands claim to be unmarried or soldiers spin exaggerated tales of their exploits in the hopes of enticing her to their beds. It's just one more thing about her life that she cannot explain. She lets out a harsh laugh. "Strange, isn't it? A pirate who hasn't lied to me?"

Maggie grins and shrugs. "Pirate though he may be, Killian Jones has never struck me as truly evil – formidable and extremely complicated, to be sure, but he's got himself an honorable streak that would surprise you." She chuckles. "And I must say, my girl, I've known him for many years, and I've never seen him take as much interest in a woman as he has in you." She winks. "Perhaps you just bring out the best in him."

Swan wills her cheeks not flush, her features carefully neutral when she stands defiantly and hauls out a sack of flour to begin making bread.

Maggie watches her with a look of amusement and a little sadness as she checks on the simmering contents of the pot and then begins separating sprigs of rosemary. They work in companionable silence for a while until Swan has the dough combined and divided and they move to knead the loaves side-by-side at the work bench. "So when do you leave?" she asks.

Swan turns her head, her eyes shining with a shade of helplessness and her shoulders undulating as she works the bread in a practiced rhythm. She directs her gaze back to her hands and sniffs. "I never said I was going."

Beside her, Maggie's mouth forms into a quiet little smile. "Oh, Swan. You didn't have to."

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

It's late in the evening by the time Hook makes his way back to Maggie's. In addition to making his purchases from the swordsmith, he's spent the remainder of the afternoon haggling prices with various merchants and suppliers. Securing all the food and supplies the Jolly needs is always a task, and he's gratified to have completed it in a single day. Now, however, he finds himself weary and yearning for a warm meal and a pint or two, and the thought of finding those things and Swan in the same place eases the tension between his shoulders as he pushes the tavern door open. The dinner crowd has mostly dispersed at this hour, and he has no difficulty finding an empty table in the corner.

Swan – Emma, he supposes – emerges from the kitchen several minutes later with a tankard of ale and part of a loaf of bread. "Hi." She seems almost shy as she places the items on the table in front of him, wiping her hands on her apron.

He beams, exhaustion dissipating at the sight of her. "Swan."

She appears to relax a fraction and returns his smile. "You look tired." She studies the subtle signs of fatigue written on his face, and her expression grows sympathetic. "Hungry?"

"Famished," he admits. "I wouldn't mind seeing what became of those vegetables you had with you earlier."

"Of course." Her grin warms him more effectively than the nearby fire as she turns and hustles toward the kitchen.

The stew is better than adequate, and Hook practically inhales it, mopping up the last drops at the bottom of his bowl with a few torn pieces of bread.

Maggie's satisfied laugh meets his ears, and the tavern-keep appears and plops herself down at his table. "An empty bowl is the best compliment a cook can receive," she comments.

He rumbles in agreement. "Aye. If you have some more, I would gladly compliment you again."

She chuckles and signals Emma, who is cleaning up behind the bar. The girl disappears into the kitchen, and Maggie rotates back to face him. "Swan tells me you think she's from Misthaven."

Hook nods and lifts his tankard, giving it a swirl before raising it to his lips. "Mark my word – all signs point north as far as the girl is concerned."

Maggie surveys him mildly. "For a man who only met her last night, you're awfully sure of yourself."

"How long have you known me?"

She laughs. "Many years," she acknowledges. "I don't doubt you're right about who you think she is. I've just never known you to be so eager to play the hero. I assume you're getting something out of this?"

He gives her the side-eye and winks. "Perhaps."

She arcs a graying eyebrow. "Something other than the chance to get in the good graces of a girl you can't stop staring at?"

Hook's gaze falls to the table, though he shrugs and plasters on a nonchalant grin. "Pirate, love. I'm perfectly capable of appreciating profit _and_ a pretty face."

Maggie sits back and tuts, her brown eyes boring uncomfortably into him. "She's more than that, and you know it. You've figured out how special she is."

"I know treasure when I see it," he acquiesces quietly, studying his tankard. His eyes flick back up to her face. "Would you be disappointed if some of my intentions were honorable?"

"Of course not. I'm actually rather proud of you, Captain." The woman smiles fondly at him. "I encouraged her to go with you."

"She hasn't decided yet?"

"Oh, she has," Maggie replies airily. "She just won't admit it." She rises to her feet as Emma emerges from the kitchen and heads toward them with a bowl of stew in one hand and another half a loaf of crusty bread on a platter in the other. The older woman claps a hand heavily on the pirate's shoulder, somehow making it feel like the weight of the world. "Take care of her, Captain."

Hook swallows hard and nods as she walks away.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

The sounds of the street outside have only partly died down by the time Swan returns to the tiny attic above the tavern where she's slept since Maggie first took her in. Through the single open window she can still hear the scattered calls of drunken revelers and the occasional blush-inducing groans and breathy yelps of the prostitutes servicing their latest round of clients in the brothels (and, indeed, the alleys) down the way. She briefly wonders if Hook is one of those clients, but she quickly shakes her head to try to banish the lurid and unwanted images from her mind.

Hunching to avoid striking her head on the low vaulted ceiling, she steps over to the thin straw mattress that sits on the floor to one side of the window and lowers herself to sit on the edge with a tired sigh. Swan sets her lantern carefully aside and goes to work stripping out of her corset and petticoat, her thoughts a jumble as she sets them aside and breathes deep. It's been a long and eventful day, and she hardly knows what she's feeling about all of its revelations – that she knows how to wield a sword and read maps, that the Captain now believes her to be a missing princess from a country so far away it may as well be on the moon, that Maggie appears to trust his judgment, that she feels undeniably drawn to him…

She huffs and reaches for the small, worn hairbrush she inherited from one of the other barmaids, staring out into the night as she absently works the out the day's tangles with the fraying bristles.

Leave Vicarstown.

Does she dare?

Her eyes flit up and down the dimly lit street, and she winces at the unmistakable sound of some inebriated soul turning out the contents of their stomach nearby. Is she willing to accept a life holed up in this port town? Is whatever lies out there for her worth braving a long voyage at sea with _pirates_? She chews on her lip.

Is it riskier to stay and never find out?

 _Trust your gut, Swan. It will tell you what to do._

That's what Hook had said. They both know what he wants, but he isn't asking her to trust _him_ , she realizes suddenly. He's asking her to trust herself.

She huffs and scrunches her face in a tormented mask.

 _Okay. Okay._

Swan straightens and begins to gather her meager belongings into a neat pile next to her bed before she loses her nerve. Her gaze flies around the attic at the various storage crates she shares the space with, searching for a spare sack in which to carry her things.

The sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs gives her a start, and Swan freezes, the hairs on her neck rising on end until Maggie's silhouette, illuminated in the dark by her own lantern, appears half bent-over in the low doorway. The tavern-keep is in her faded cotton dressing gown, her hair in a braid down one shoulder and a dark bundle in her hand.

Swan's surprise must be obvious on her face, because the other woman smiles apologetically. "Sorry to have frightened you."

Swan releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "It's alright," she chortles nervously. "I thought you'd gone to bed hours ago."

Maggie's keen gaze alights on Swan's small stack of belongings, and she smiles knowingly in the lantern light. "It occurred to me you might be needing this," she says, holding out the bundle and giving it a shake. A large old burlap rice sack unfurls.

Swan rises and comes forward, emotion suddenly swimming in her eyes as she hesitantly accepts the offering, cherishing the sensation of the coarse fabric against her fingertips. She suddenly flings herself forward, her arms wrapping around Maggie's broad torso and her voice wavering with the first tear that rolls down her cheek. "Thank you."

Maggie sniffles back. "Ah, my dear. You've always been welcome."


	3. Chapter 3

The following morning is hazy, the rising sun just beginning to burn off the thick harbor fog when Hook first sets foot on deck. He fills his lungs with cool, damp air and surveys what he can of the surrounding water before turning his attention to the wharf and the port beyond. The sight of a hooded figure walking down toward the dock through the backlit mist causes him to do a double-take, and a broad grin splits his face. She wears the same blue cloak and green skirt as the day before, but a large, gathered burlap sack is tossed over her shoulder now, and her step is more purposeful.

She strides in the direction of the Jolly and sights him as she draws closer. Taking his cue, he moves down the gangplank to intercept her, schooling his features so as not to betray his excitement. Only a subtle smile remains on his lips by the time he meets her emerald gaze. "'Morning, Swan."

"Hi." She surveys the ship behind him, squinting in the reflected sunlight but appearing suitably impressed as her eyes drift across the gleaming white hull, the bright blue and yellow gunwhale, the polished wood bowsprit, and the neatly furled sails. "So this is the Jolly Roger."

"She is indeed," he says, gesturing proudly. "Finest ship in all the realms."

Emma makes an agreeable noise, admiring the ship a few seconds more as they listen to the early calls of the sea birds and the soft slosh of the water. She takes a deep breath. "I have some conditions," she informs him.

"Oh?" His eyebrows and chin rise a touch.

"I sleep separate from the crew."

"I've already made arrangements for a private berth."

"And you'll have to forgive me for not loving the idea of being trapped on a ship with a bunch of men, much less pirates," she continues, her face still critical. "Can you guarantee my safety?"

Hook nods soberly. "You have my word. My men follow my orders or they regret it. Severely. You will be safe under my protection."

She's silent for a moment as she studies him with that penetrating stare of hers. At last her shoulders relax, and she tosses her head a little. "I'll need a weapon. If your ship falls under attack, I will not be helpless and unarmed."

A quiet laugh filled with admiration bubbles from his chest, and he bobs his head again. "Of course. We can find something for you in the armory once you're settled. A ship is not an ideal place for longswords, but perhaps you'll find something else to your liking." He dimples playfully. "Under my instruction, we might even turn you into a better swordsman than your father."

Emma finally cracks a small smile, the apples of her cheeks pinking with amusement. "Humility becomes you," she deadpans. She cocks her head and narrows her eyes shrewdly. "Returning a missing royal has got to be worth some gold. What if it turns out I'm not the Princess? That there's no money in this for you?"

"Ah." Hook glances at the sky and searches for the right words, both unsurprised and chastised that she's deduced his potential for profit in this situation. "The Jolly does not stop being a pirate ship simply because we travel north with you, Swan. We'll make this trip worth our while either way, and forgive me for saying that you will not be allowed to interfere in those activities." He keeps his voice firm, though inwardly he cringes at the way her eyes widen. "But we will not take unnecessary risks with you aboard," he adds, his expression softening. "We will do everything we can to deliver you safely to Misthaven, and, in the unlikely event I am proven wrong about you, the pleasure of your company aboard ship will be payment in full."

"And by the pleasure of my company, you mean…?" she asks, her tone bordering on a warning.

"Why, your delightful conversation, darling," he responds breezily. "Unless, of course, you had something else in mind." He smirks like a scoundrel at the deep flush that washes up over her face.

"I did not."

His eyes sparkle. "As you wish."

Emma huffs in a way that befits her regal pedigree, recovering from her ruffling admirably and fixing him with a look of cool scrutiny that actually causes him to hold his breath. Relief washes over him when her hand finally juts out. "Deal."

Hook beams as they shake on it, and he sweeps his arm sideways to invite her to climb the gangplank. "Who knows?" he declares cheerfully as her cloak swishes softly past him, "Perhaps you'll make a useful addition to the crew. I get the feeling there's a little pirate in you." Her dismissive laugh makes him grin even wider.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

Swan can feel every pair of eyes on her as she stands at the rail behind the ship's wheel while the Jolly Roger pulls farther out to sea, her gaze fixed on the little port town that grows smaller and smaller in the distance. Her grim face disguises the tumultuous emotions swirling in her chest as the features of the coastal hamlet grow less and less distinct, fading into the greater landscape of the peninsula until the town is nothing but a smudge in the early afternoon sunlight. Vicarstown never really felt like a home, but it's the only place she can ever remember being, the only world that's familiar, and she's melancholy not knowing if she'll ever return to see it or Maggie again. As it has since she set foot on the dock, anxiety also ebbs and flows in her veins today, priming every nerve to be on edge, and she wonders for the hundredth time how foolhardy it is to try to journey halfway around the world in the company of pirates.

Upon maneuvering out of harbor, Hook had called all hands to attention in order to present her formally to the crew, most of who had clearly not been expecting her presence aboard their ship. She'd withdrawn her hood and seen recognition cross more than one face as the men remembered her from the tavern and perhaps even recalled her altercation with Blackbeard. Surprised looks had abounded when Hook had explained that she was being transported to Misthaven as his personal guest. Interestingly, he'd made no mention of her suspected identity or of any reward for her return.

"She is the Lady Swan, and you will treat her as such," he had called, his jaw set in a determined scowl. "I know most of you bilge rats do not have a lot of experience with true ladies, so I will be clear. She is to be addressed as 'milady' or 'ma'am.' The deal is that she will not interfere with our ship's activities, and you will grant her every courtesy within reason. If she asks you to leave her alone, you will do so immediately. Any harassment or insult to her person will be met with consequences at my hand. And her safety is our top priority. Is this clear?"

Sideways glances had been exchanged, but heads had bobbed, and though some had muttered while others had responded more heartily, all had voiced their understanding without protest. The steely glimmer Hook had had in his eyes and the unforgiving harshness in his voice – her first glimpse of him as the dreaded pirate captain – made her breath catch, but the pure obedience it appeared to inspire in the men did leave her feeling more secure by the time he'd dismissed the assembled back to their posts and begun barking orders in various directions to get them properly underway.

Now, however, her anxiety flares anew. The crew moves in a flurry about her, and she bristles as the pirates openly gawk and leer, staring at her with varying levels of fascination, awe, contempt, and desire. Swan takes a deep breath and holds her head high. She wants nothing more than to try to forget about them, to focus on the sea and the sky or to close her eyes altogether and savor the sound of the waves and the breath of the wind on her skin, but prudence demands she keep her guard up around these men regardless of the Captain's guarantee. She swallows, wondering if she's to spend the entire voyage feeling eyes on her back. Hook estimates their journey will take them five or six weeks if conditions are in their favor. _Five or six weeks._ She sighs, impatiently pushing her windblown hair out of her face. A long time to spend looking over her shoulder.

Footsteps approach, and she whirls to see Hook strolling up. He responds to her skittishness with a hand held aloft to stay her and a small smile. "Relax, Swan. It's only me."

She blinks sheepishly. "Sorry." Her eyes flick over his shoulder toward the rest of the crew. "Being the only woman on a pirate ship takes some getting used to, I guess."

She swears there's a little tinge of sadness in his eyes as he momentarily bows his head. "Aye, I suppose it does," he says, more quietly than she expects. He looks back up at her, his smile restored. "Come. Allow me to see you to your cabin."

Glad for something to do, she picks up her sack and allows him to guide her down a hatch, his hand poised just behind her back as they navigate the narrow passageways that run below deck. They arrive at a nondescript door mid-ship, and he pushes it open before standing aside to reveal a small but serviceable private berth. Swan enters, looking around with interest as she examines the small bunk, built-in washstand, and empty locker shoehorned within. Though the wood surfaces are all well-worn with use, the room is clean and shipshape, and she recognizes the boon of having such a space on a vessel like this.

"Who normally sleeps here?" she asks, impressed with his generosity.

"My first mate, Mr. Smee." Hook scratches behind his ear. "He'll bunk with the rest of the crew for this voyage."

She sets her sack down on the bed and lays a hand softly on the edge of the washstand. "I should thank him for giving this up."

Pleasant surprise flashes across his features, but Hook shrugs. "He does so on my orders, but I'm sure he would appreciate the gesture. You'll know him by his red hat. Only he and my quartermaster, Mr. Roberts, know that you're the Princess."

" _Alleged_ Princess."

His handsome face breaks into an amused grin, and he nods indulgently. "Very well, _Your Highness."_

She rolls her eyes.

He gestures out the door. "I believe you saw the mess on the way here. The crew eats just before noon and just after sundown. One of the men, Thomas, does most of the cooking. The fare can't rival Maggie's, but it's passable." He registers the nervousness on her face. "Are you alright, love?"

Swan tries to force a grin, even as her stomach clenches at the idea of sitting at a communal table with a group of unfamiliar and potentially unsavory men twice a day. "Uh, yeah. Fine."

Hook considers her for a moment. "Would you prefer to dine with me in my cabin?" When she blinks and relief writes itself across her features, he chuckles. "Private meals are a captain's privilege."

Swan folds her lips and manages a tiny nod. "If it's not too much of an imposition," she stammers. There's a flutter in her chest at brilliance of his smile.

"On the contrary," he says, "it would be my honor."

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

The day is marvelous fun for the Captain. He invites the Princess to hover at his elbow while he explains the ins and outs of the ship, spending more time than usual behind the wheel and pointing out the goings on about the deck to her. He familiarizes her with the structure of the Jolly and with the various members of his crew, and despite her initial guardedness, he wins her smile by interspersing his explanations with the occasional dry commentary, particularly with regard to the latter. The way her dimples flash and her eyes twinkle when he tells her about Smee's attachment to his hat or about the cooper, Martin's, propensity to warble loudly and badly under the influence of too much drink tempts Hook to grin like a fool, something he hasn't done sober in recent (or even distant) memory. She seems to relax a little as the hours go by, her uneasiness lessening in fractions in the comfort of his shadow, and she even goes so far as to voluntarily introduce herself to the crewmen that come up to speak with him, taking an extra moment with Smee to thank him for the loan of his cabin. The expression on his first mate's rounded face – surprise followed by bashful enchantment – makes Hook wonder how long it will be before Emma has even the most hardened of the men wrapped around her little finger.

There's something soothing about her presence at his side, her chuckle is music in his ear, and more than once he has to force himself to stifle a smile when he catches a member of the crew watching him knowingly. He swallows hard after the third time it happens, well aware that some of them are comparing this to the last occasion he brought a woman aboard, the woman who became his first mate in every sense, the woman who died because of her decision to follow him. His eyes fall to the deck, the muscles of his jaw tightening. _This isn't the same thing_ , he reminds himself. Swan – Emma – the _Princess_ – she isn't like Milah. She isn't here for him, and she isn't staying. She may be smart and fiery and bloody beautiful, but she's a temporary distraction, just a lovely means to a well-paid end. He glances up to see her tracking a pair of gulls over the starboard bow, her eyes wistful and her hair tossed on the headwind in golden ribbons, and he sighs. Bloody hell if he isn't going to earn every copper of that reward money exercising the self-control it's going to take to remember that.

"So what did you think of your first day aboard ship?" he asks as they retire to his quarters to await the arrival of their dinner. The sun is just below the horizon now, the sky still glowing with the last bit of its light like a burnt ember. Emma waits, braced midway down the ladder that leads from the hatch above, while Hook moves about the shadowy room, using the flame from a lantern to kindle the brass oil lamp hanging above his table and the two wall-mounted lamps over his berth and near his desk. They flicker to life and cast glimmering light across his belongings, and he turns to see her descend the last few steps hesitantly, her eyes darting this way and that as she takes it all in.

"There's a lot more to sailing than I ever realized," she admits, her boots landing softly upon the floorboards.

"Indeed." Hook chuckles and gestures with a small bow. "Welcome to my humble abode." He turns his back to her to shrug out of his coat and strides over to the corner to her left to hang it on a peg on the back of the door. "Sounds like you haven't spent much time at sea."

She continues to hover at the foot of the ladder almost shyly. "I don't know," she reminds him. "It doesn't feel like I have, anyway."

He hums. "Well, all due respect, Misthaven's never been known for its seafarers," he points out, unfastening his sword belt and hanging that over the same peg. "As I understand it, its wealth lies more in its forests and mines." He flashes her a smile. "Never fear, love. You're a fast learner. If you desire it, I wager we can turn you into a more than adequate sailor by the time we reach your shores," he says with a wink.

He motions her toward the table, rolling out a map. "Care to see our course?" Hook feels a small swell of gratification when at last she ventures forth from the ladder, hiding his smile beneath his bowed head as he runs his hand over the parchment, the stones from his rings catching the light. "Now, we're here…"

Emma becomes engrossed as he talks, some of the stiffness in her spine dissipating while he traces the stages of the Jolly's anticipated path with the tip of a finger and points out their options for making port along the way. She sweeps the veil of her hair back and tucks it behind her ear before tapping a small drawing of tentacles emerging from the waves. "What's this?"

"That," he says sagely, "is a region of increased krakken activity – best avoided unless you care to meet an enormous beast with lots of arms and teeth who wants to have you for dinner." A knock causes him to glance up. "Speaking of which. Come!"

The door swings wide, and his crewman, Thomas, a lanky young man with auburn hair, appears, balancing a tray laden with two plates, a pair of goblets, and a small bottle of wine. "Dinner, Cap'n, m-ma'am," he announces, sounding a little nervous.

Hook beckons him to approach, hurriedly rolling the map away and relocating the other items on the table to the shelf beneath the bank of windows behind him.

Thomas clears his throat as he sets the tray before them. "I found the wine you asked for, sir."

"Excellent." Hook swipes the bottle from the tray to examine the vintage and gives a small grin of approval before dismissing his man with a nod.

Thomas sneaks a shy look at Emma and takes his leave, shutting the cabin door quietly behind him.

The Captain sets the bottle aside and moves to pull out a chair for her. "Milady."

Emma looks a little embarrassed, clearly unaccustomed, within recent memory at least, to such a courtesy. Her cheeks bloom red as she slides obligingly into the seat and allows him to scoot her in. "Thanks."

He unseals the wine. "I've been saving this for a special occasion," he says with a wink, pouring them both a liberal glass. "It seemed like an auspicious way to begin our journey."

Emma reaches out to peer at the year on the faded label, and her eyes widen. "You didn't have to open this for me."

His grin reaches his ears. "Nonsense, Swan. Fine wine is meant to be shared with the perfect company. And I assure you, you're the first person I've had the pleasure of sharing a meal with in a long time on whom it would not be wasted."

She chuckles and looks down into her goblet, giving the straw-colored liquid a little swirl. "Really? You don't think your men would appreciate getting to taste this?" she asks, bowing her head and sniffing delicately.

He snorts. "Enjoy it, yes. Appreciate it, no. I know the swill many of them will settle for. I've drunk a fair amount of it myself." Her little laugh makes him feel a bit giddy before he's even had a sip, and he toasts. "To finding home."

She clinks her glass against his with a slightly apprehensive smile. "Home."

Between the wine, a meal made from ingredients all fresh from port, and Emma's company, dinner is nothing short of delightful, though he's fairly certain the latter is the greatest contributing factor. Emma prompts him to tell her more about the locales they'll pass through on their way north, and though she clearly makes a point of not overindulging in the wine, she seems to enjoy herself as he entertains her with descriptions of the soft white sand beaches of Glowerhaven, the rolling green hills of the Southern Isles, and the dramatic Cliffs of Evensbrooke.

Only crumbs remain by the time they finish, and Emma rises from the table with a soft rustle of her skirts in order to peruse his extensive collection of books. She drags her fingertips lightly across the spines of the volumes lining the shelves near his bed, examining the titles one by one while he watches her over his second glass of wine. A sizable tome with foreign script stamped across it in fading gold leaf catches her eye, and she carefully pulls it free to inspect it further.

" _Odýsseia_. _The Odyssey_ ," she observes, admiration in her voice. She freezes, blinking. "I read Greek." She stares at the shiny worn calfskin cover in awe.

Hook rumbles with satisfaction at having stumbled upon more evidence of her royal upbringing. "It would seem you do, _Alleged_ Princess."

She narrows her eyes at him and purses her lips in the barest of concessions before flipping the book open and scanning a few of the dog-eared pages thoughtfully. "Hmph. Not nearly as well as you, it seems," she concludes. "This looks like it's been read a hundred times." She arcs a brow at him in silent question.

The corner of his mouth crooks upward, and his gaze grazes the beams above them. "You'd be surprised what they teach you in the Royal Navy," he tells her. "And perhaps less surprised to know that a pirate enjoys reading about adventures at sea."

"No offense, but I'm a little surprised to find a pirate enjoys _reading_ ," she admits. "All the pirates I've met seem to prefer less… intellectual activities." She folds the book shut with a soft whump and returns it to the shelf. "Poetry and literature were not exactly common topics of conversation at the tavern."

Hook flashes a muted smile. "We hail from all walks of life, love. It's hardly fair to paint us with the same brush when it comes to our interests."

Emma shoots him an appraising look over her shoulder as she goes back to her meandering tour of his books and other knickknacks. "Are you telling me you don't also love rum and dice and cards and easy women?" she challenges. The spark in her eyes is pure intelligence and boldness, and, gods, it calls to him like one of Homer's bloody sirens.

His tongue feels pleasantly heavy as he swallows. "I take pleasure in many things," he manages, watching her raptly from his chair. "Though I admit that diversions that offer a challenge tend to be much more… rewarding."

"Hmm." She sounds unconvinced, but he doesn't miss the tiny twitch of the corner of her mouth before she resumes her survey of his things. "So. The Royal Navy?"

His grin fades. "Aye. Speaking of ancient tales," he murmurs. He reaches for his wine goblet and lifts it to his lips.

Emma turns at the change in his tone, eyeing him curiously. "Not a happy story, I take it."

He sighs as he drains his glass and sets it down. "Not in the end, no," he answers flatly, his expression somber as he slowly rotates the stem between his fingers. "Let's just say every man has his reasons for turning pirate." He should change the subject or stop talking now, he thinks. There's nothing to be gained by revealing his emotional soft spots to anyone. But she approaches and reseats herself next to him, folding her hands unassumingly in her lap and remaining silent as she waits for him to elaborate, and he realizes that part of him _wants_ to tell her. To be known by her. Several long seconds go by.

"We served a corrupt king who sent us to Neverland in search of a plant we were told was medicine," Hook begins at last. "It turned out to be poison meant to be used as a weapon of war. My captain wouldn't believe it at first and dosed himself with it to prove it was a lie." The muscles in his jaw flex with tension and grief. "He was my older brother, Liam," he says quietly, his gaze fixed on the table. "He died."

Emma's expression transforms into one of horror. "I'm… I'm so sorry," she stammers.

He nods, his features pained as he chances the briefest of glances up at her before letting his eyes fall back to the worn wood table. "I took command, and this ship hasn't served a monarch since."

Her eyes widen. " _This_ ship. This was a naval vessel."

Hook's mouth pulls into a half-hearted smirk. "Not just any naval vessel – the pride of the King's fleet," he corrects. "She's special – made from enchanted wood they say. It makes her the sturdiest and fastest ship in all the realms." He glances around looking nostalgic. "We've weathered many a storm together, seen many strange, glittering shores."

"Like Odysseus."

"Indeed."

Emma hums. There's a moment of hesitation. "Your brother must have been quite an officer to have been appointed captain of the naval flagship," she ventures kindly.

Hook's brow wrinkles, his smile slipping away. "Aye," he mutters with a bittersweet huff. He stares distantly at the floor by the bookshelf, the spot where Liam last drew breath, and his voice grows thick. "That he was. He was the best of men."

She shifts in her seat, her face written with sympathy. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up a painful subject."

He glances up and catches her gaze with the shadow of a polite smile. "It's alright, love. It was a very long time ago." He brushes the side of his nose with his thumb before clearing his throat. "Feel free to borrow any of the books you like," he offers, rising with a grunt. "I should fetch you a lantern for your cabin. Wait here."

He registers Emma's grateful nod as he takes up his own lantern and exits his quarters, pausing in the corridor as soon as the door closes behind him to try to shake off the fresh ache - the guilt, sorrow, and loneliness – that resurrecting his brother's ghost always brings to his heart.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

A weary sigh escapes Swan's lips as she retires to her cabin, hanging her lantern above her berth and settling on the edge of the utilitarian mattress with the Captain's copy of _Customs of the Frozen Lands_. She runs her hand over the smooth black cover, her thoughts swirling as she replays the day in her mind and feels the steady rock of the ship beneath her. The soft, rhythmic creak of boards and the faint footsteps of the night watch overhead sing to her, and Hook's voice echoes in her thoughts.

 _Every man has his reasons for turning pirate._

 _What is that like? To not have any memories?_

She remembers the deep weariness that had crossed his face and the way his eyes had darkened when he spoke of his brother, and her lower lip disappears between her teeth. She's heard Captain Hook described as many things, seen the swaggering rapscallion and the hard-nosed commander, but it's these facets of him that she's never heard a word about – the worldly thinker, the thoughtful host, the mournful survivor – that give her the most pause. None of the tales, even from Maggie, have prepared her for the honesty she hears in his words and the glimpses of vulnerability he allows her, and it makes her wonder even more at the hard life that twisted the Captain, a man in whom she sees more than a kernel of good, into a figure of such dark reputation.

Swan rises and sets the book on the washstand. She studies her murky reflection in the dimly lit mirror and half-heartedly tries to finger-comb a few of the innumerable tangles out of her hair. Since her appearance in Vicarstown, she's only been afforded the luxury of seeing her own reflection a handful of times, and the face that looks back at her is still disturbingly unfamiliar. _Alleged Princess_. As many questions as she has about Hook, it's really her own story that she should be worrying about. She doesn't know which possibility terrifies her more – that he might be right about her or that he could be wrong and this could be a fool's errand that will end with her meeting some unspeakable fate at sea or abandoned in yet another unknown land.

She locates the laces on her corset and tugs them loose with a sigh. Killian Jones has apparently sailed the realms for over a hundred years, she reminds herself, tossing the leather aside. The questionable nobility of his intentions notwithstanding, she believes his expressed determination to get her safely to Misthaven, and, like it or not, she's left herself with no option but to trust in that and in him.

She reaches for the lantern to turn down the light, lowering the wick and staring into the dancing flame as it shrinks down to nothing more than a thin glowing stripe. The cabin transforms into a room of dancing shadows, and Swan shucks off her boots and crawls into bed, electing not to strip down to her shift even in the supposed privacy of her berth. The gentle sway of the ship is soothing, but after several long, sleepless minutes, she frowns, realizing that she misses the chirp of crickets and the chorus of frogs that always filled the night air of the little port town in the wee hours once the bawdiness died down. She wonders what the night sounds like in the world she used to know. Swan curls up on her side, cocooning herself beneath the slightly rough wool blanket and clutching the ancient pillow beneath her fingers, and as she closes her eyes to the uncertainties that loom over her like the dark, distorted shapes on the walls, she tries her best not to feel like a wayward, lonely child who misses a home she can't even remember.

 **•** **·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•**

 _Author's Note: This is the end of the preview, guys. Sorry to cut it short there, but if you like where this story is going and you're okay with MA-rated content, I encourage you to keep going over on AO3 or on my Tumblr. Thanks so much for reading!_


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